The Mother's Day Mystery

by Peter Bartram

  "And then the vicar provided you with the perfect answer."

  Purslowe bristled: "I do hope you are not suggesting I was involved in this dreadful business, Mr Crampton."

  "Your role was completely unwitting," I said. "You put up one of those new Royal Society for the Prevention of Accidents posters on the church noticeboard."

  Purslowe asked: "Do you mean the one with the slogan 'Stop accidents on the road'? The one with the picture of that unfortunate woman sitting in a wheelchair."

  "That is the poster that gave our three stoopers-to-folly the idea," I said. "Except they didn't plan to leave their victim in a wheelchair. They planned to leave him dead. They planned to run him down in a car while he was on his bicycle."

  "Oh dear, I shall take the poster down immediately," Purslowe twittered.

  "Bit late in the day for that, vicar," Ted said.

  "But it wasn't too late in the day to plan a killing. Was it you who initiated the plan, Lady Evangelina?"

  Evangelina tossed her head.

  "I'll take that as a 'yes'. The poster gave you the idea, but you immediately realised the plot was fraught with danger."

  "It all depended on catching Hooke on his bicycle," Ted said.

  "Yes, the plotters couldn't spend their time sitting in a car hoping Hooke would cycle by. They needed to know where he would be cycling at a specific time. Even more, it would have to be somewhere they could run him down with a reasonable hope that no-one else would see what happened. Witnesses would have been fatal to the plan. And that's where you contributed your idea, wasn't it, Christabel?"

  "If you know so much, you tell me," she said.

  "When we spoke in the library at Natterjack Grange, you lied to me about whether Hooke had visited you."

  Christabel went to protest, but I held up my hand.

  "It's no use. I'm a crime reporter. I spend much of my life listening to lies. I know when I'm hearing one. And I'm willing to bet my Parker fountain pen to a penny that Hooke visited often because he was intrigued by your way-out lifestyle. But mainly because he fancied you."

  "Think I'd make out with a square schoolboy like that? Ugh."

  "No, I don't think that. But I do think you typed the note which enticed Hooke to a meeting at the barn on the estate the night he died. The note was typed on a card with distinctive rounded corners. When I was in your library, I noticed there was a handsome wooden stationery holder on the desk holding some of those cards."

  "So what? I've already admitted I was driving the car that killed Hooke. What's the point of all this?"

  "The point is to get to the truth," I said. "And I haven't finished with your contribution yet."

  "This is worse than a bad trip," Christabel said.

  I said: "The other problem you faced was which car to use to run Hooke down."

  "Yes, that gave us some problems," Evangelina said. "I could hardly use the Bentley - much too distinctive. But, of course, I did drive the car we finally chose."

  "You rightly expected the car to take some damage as you knocked Hooke roughly off his cycle," I said. "And when Hooke was found, the police would look for a car with a damaged front or wing. So you couldn't send it to a local garage for repair. Local car body shops would be first on the cop's list. Right, Ted?"

  Wilson nodded.

  I said: "And this is where Christabel once again, came up with the answer. She volunteered her Austin Cambridge. It was a dowdy green colour. When I visited the Grange, the car had been partly painted in a flower power livery - bright primary colour images of flowers and birds and butterflies. It was the perfect way to disguise any damage."

  "My car, my bum in the driving seat," Christabel said.

  "But was it?" I said. "We now come to the night of the killing. And I think I can reconstruct what happened. It began with Clothilde and Evangelina driving to Natterjack Grange to collect the Austin Cambridge."

  I turned towards Clothilde. "You drove your Morris Minor with Evangelina as a passenger."

  "That's pure guesswork," Clothilde said.

  "I don't guess. Sherlock Holmes said guessing was destructive to reasoning. I find it leads to libel suits. In any event, there was no need to guess. At one point on the driveway into Natterjack Grange, there is a hollow where a spring flows onto the track. The spring has spread a sandy mud over the road at that point. You can’t avoid it as you drive through. The following day, I found the stuff had stuck round the wheel-arches of my MGB. I’d already seen it on the wheel-arches of your Morris Minor, Clothilde. I had a sneaky look after you'd generously fed me on tea and cake."

  Clothilde frowned and gripped her handbag more tightly.

  "Fine way to repay hospitality," she said.

  "Better than killing the guest," I said.

  "You're missing the point," Evangelina said. "Clothilde may have driven me to collect the Austin, but I drove the Austin up on to the Bostal."

  "Yes, you did," I said.

  Evangelina's eyes goggled. "How can you be so cocksure about that?"

  "Because of what happened while you and Clothilde sat in the car in the lay-by waiting for Hooke to appear."

  "You can't possibly know what was said in a private car by two people," Evangelina said.

  "Not know, but infer," I said.

  "What does that mean?"

  "It means I draw on what I already know - and on one piece of vital evidence - to be able to reconstruct the main drift of your conversation."

  "This I've got to hear," Ted murmured.

  I gave him one of my cool looks and pressed on.

  "To begin with, each of you knew a bit about the others' driving experience. Evangelina, you knew that Clothilde had a reputation as a driver who was a hazard on the road. The vicar had innocently mentioned Clothilde’s erratic driving when I’d met him at the vicarage."

  Clothilde shot Purslowe a fierce glance. “How could you do that – a man of the cloth?”

  Purslowe’s eyes travelled upwards. “I shall seek divine forgiveness.”

  I ignored him and said: “But that wasn’t the end of the argument in the car. Because Clothilde knew Evangelina as a lady-of-the-manor more used to being driven around by a chauffeur than sitting behind the steering wheel herself. When I examined the lay-by, I noticed that a larch sapling had recently been snapped - probably by a car backing into it. Perhaps Evangelina had snapped it when she reversed into the lay-by. Anyway, there was certainly enough doubt about the driving prowess of both of you to question which should be at the wheel to commit the deed. After all, it had to be done right. You would only get one chance."

  "It was me," Evangelina said.

  "No, me," Clothilde said.

  I looked at Christabel.

  She shrugged. "You know it wasn't me now."

  I turned back to Clothilde and Evangelina. "You'd stooped to fresh folly with a plan to kill Hooke. And there you were in the car, minutes before Hooke's appearance, arguing about who should do it."

  "We weren't arguing," Clothilde said.

  "We were discussing," Evangelina said. "In a civilised manner."

  “Can murder ever be civilised?” I said. “I doubt it. But I am certain that you, Evangelina, agreed that Clothilde should be behind the wheel to deliver the fatal blow."

  Evangelina bowed her head in acceptance. "Yes," she said quietly.

  "And you, Clothilde, had a knock-out argument," I said. "You told Evangelina you only had a few months to live. If anything went wrong and the plot was discovered, you wouldn't be around to stand in the dock."

  Clothilde opened her handbag and took out her handkerchief. She dabbed her eyes.

  "It's true," she said.

  "I know," I said. "I saw the bottle of pills for your heart trouble in your kitchen - along with the jars of fig jam. My own mother took them for her heart problem. Pills, that is, not jars of fig jam."

  "None of that counts as evidence that would stand up in court," Ted said.

  "You won't have to rely on
it. There's something that clinches the case. When I was looking at the tracks of the Austin in the dried lay-by mud, I noticed there were some deep circular depressions around the car. It looked like someone had walked round the car with a thin garden dibble and made holes. In fact, they were made by the heels of Evangelina's stilettos. When she agreed to change places with Clothilde, she climbed out of the driver's door and walked around to the passenger's side to get back in. Meanwhile, Clothilde slid across the bench seat behind the wheel.

  "And moments later Spencer Hooke appeared on his bicycle ride to death."

  ***

  "Now this is what I call a Mother’s Day present," Frank Figgis said.

  He held up a proof of the Chronicle's front page and grinned at it like a kid who's just been given his first teddy bear. The page carried my exclusive about the murder of Spencer Hooke. The screamer headline read: THREE WOMEN FACE MURDER CONSPIRACY CHARGE.

  Further down the page, another headline reader: BANKER ON DRUGS PEDDLING RAP.

  It was the following morning and we were sitting in Figgis's office.

  I said: "A great story, I agree. But a Mother’s Day gift? Did you usually hand your own mother a conspiracy to murder?"

  "Usually a box of Dairy Milk - when I remembered. When I didn't she'd give me a clip round the ear."

  "Sturdy character building stuff," I said.

  Figgis put the proof in his out-tray and lit up a Woodbine.

  He said: "What I still can't figure out is why they all wanted to take the rap for the killing. It's usually the other way round, with the killer pointing the finger of suspicion somewhere else."

  I said: "You've got to remember that when the three hatched this plot, they expected to get away with it. They thought they'd planned the perfect crime. And if Holdsworth's sloppy investigation had run its course, they would have. When they walked into St Andrew's church yesterday, they never imagined they'd walk out in handcuffs."

  "I get that," Figgis said. "But why were the three all so keen to put their hand up to the dirty deed?"

  "Until last week, the only person who knew the truth about Evangelina was Clothilde. For years she'd had to bottle up the knowledge that her own daughter loved another woman as her mother. She kept the secret because of the promises she'd made and the Earl's regular pay-off, which she relied on. When Hooke arrived with his blackmail demand, she was initially appalled and frightened. But I think it became a strange kind of relief to her. It gave her an excuse to tell the truth.

  "And she had the courage to do it. But the truth came as an emotional earthquake to Evangelina and Christabel. Suddenly, Evangelina realised the woman she'd worshipped was not her mother. And Christabel had been close to the Countess whom she believed to be her grandmother. Now both Evangelina and Christabel were faced with the fact that the central belief of their life - the love of their mother and grandmother – had been based on a lie. It's not too difficult to see how that cuts loose any kind of moral judgement."

  "And leads to a murder plot," Figgis said.

  "Yes, and to the desire to pay the penalty for it. When a cataclysmic event challenges everything you ever believed, it can lead you to both evil acts and good. And that morning they'd just listened to the Reverend Purslowe preach an emotional sermon about how Moses was abandoned by his real mother and found by the pharaoh's daughter among the bulrushes. Purslowe may be a twitterer in real life but it turns out he's passion on stilts in the pulpit."

  "Hooke, the schoolboy blackmailer, didn't understand the forces he'd unleashed," Figgis said.

  "He broke a cardinal law of blackmail," I said.

  "Which is?"

  "Never let your victims meet. When they think they're alone, they feel vulnerable. As soon as they know there are others in the same trouble, they take strength from one another. They scheme for a way out. Hooke was too greedy. He paid the ultimate price."

  I stood up and headed for the door.

  Figgis said: "I'm hearing newsroom gossip that your Aussie girlfriend has given you the big E."

  I turned. "You've been a news editor long enough to know that not all rumours are true," I said.

  ***

  But I wasn't sure whether Figgis was right or wrong.

  The last time I'd seen Shirley was when I took off after Zach in the woods at Natterjack Grange. Holdsworth's cop car had raced up the track with its bell ringing. Shirley had screamed that I'd betrayed her.

  Despite what Ted Wilson had told me, I didn't know whether she still felt the same way.

  It was early evening before I reached her flat in Clarence Square.

  I lifted the knocker on the front door and gave a tentative tap. I wasn't feeling confident about this. I felt like a travelling circus had just pitched camp in my stomach. And the trapeze artistes were practising their somersaults.

  The door opened and Shirley stood backlit by the bulb from the hall lamp. She was wearing a pink sweater that fitted her like a second skin and blue jeans.

  She'd had the impish grin on her face - the one that made her look like a schoolgirl who's just put a whoopee cushion on the teacher's chair.

  The grin vanished when she saw me. She had a stern look in her eyes.

  She said: "Are you alone or are the blue meanies about to race round the corner with all bells ringing."

  I said: "I never meant the cops to arrive like a carnival parade at Natterjack Grange."

  Shirley shrugged. "You’d better come in."

  I smiled. "Thanks."

  "For a few minutes," she added ominously.

  She stepped aside to let me through the door. She smelt of that perfumed Camay soap she used in the shower.

  We walked into Shirley's sitting room. She faced me with her arms folded.

  "Well, let's hear your excuse," she said.

  "It's an explanation, not an excuse. When I knew Zach was involved, I realised I wouldn't be able to tackle him alone. The plan was for Ted Wilson and a couple of uniformed plods to sit quietly in their car, hidden in the woods. You'd never have known they were there. But Ted was ordered to pass the information to Holdsworth - and you know the results."

  Shirley relaxed a little. "Ted explained that to me while they were still trying to bring you round. But it doesn't alter the fact that you broke your promise."

  "With the best intentions. Besides, all's well that ends well. Your Ma is safe. I was the one who ended up laid out on the ground."

  Shirley grinned. "Yeah. I’d normally expect you to grovel, but I guess my Ma doled out your punishment. So I suppose I'll have to give you a free pass this time. Are you going to stay for supper?"

  "Try and stop me." I sniffed the air. "Smells like you're cooking something delicious."

  "I'm not doing the cooking tonight," Shirl said.

  A shadow loomed in the kitchen doorway.

  Barbara burst into the room. She had false eyelashes like bat's wings and smudged lipstick.

  Her huge breasts wobbled over the top of her low-cut dress. They looked like a pair of barrage balloons that wanted to tug free of their moorings.

  "Thanks for the bonzer words about my tucker," she said. "For a pom, you're not bad looking. I could eat you myself. No hard feelings about the fisticuffs, I hope."

  She crossed the room and threw her arms around me. She plonked a lingering kiss on my lips. Her hand foraged down my back and squeezed my bum. She jiggled her breasts against me so it felt like I was snuggling up to a water bed.

  I wriggled free.

  I shot Shirley an imploring look.

  "Will your Ma be staying long?" I asked.

  Epilogue

  Mothers' Day 1966.

  "Come back to bed," Shirley said.

  I sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on a sock.

  "I can't," I said. "Figgis has insisted I come into the office today."

  "You don't normally go on Sunday."

  "This is special. Figgis wants me to write a retrospective on last year's Mother’s Day murder."


  "I remember. The one where that schoolkid got croaked by those mad women?"

  "They weren't mad. They were scheming - as the court at Lewes Assizes found when it sentenced both of them for conspiracy to murder."

  "Two? I thought there were three."

  "Clothilde Tench-Hardie - the one who was driving the car - died before she came to trial. You can't try a dead woman."

  "So the other two had to carry the can by themselves?"

  "Afraid so. Life sentences for each. The trial judge said Christabel Fox should serve a minimum of twelve years and her mother Lady Evangelina fifteen."

  Shirley sat up in bed and rubbed her eyes.

  "They won't like that," she said. "Not a couple of right figjams like them."

  I looked puzzled. "Figjams - is that some kind of Aussie word?"

  "It's one of those words made up from the first letters of other words."

  "An acronym."

  Shirley nodded. "'Fuck I'm good - just ask me'. Means someone who thinks they're the bee's knees."

  I grinned. "I suppose both Evangelina and Christabel were figjams in their own ways. Apparently, Christabel has taken up transcendental meditation in jail. She drives the prison warders crazy with her chanting. And Lady Evangelina has become the chatelaine of Holloway."

  "That's the top women's prison in London, isn't it?"

  "Yes. Her ladyship has started up a branch of the Women's Institute in the jail. She makes marmalade in the prison kitchen and has got inmates embroidering flowery designs on their prison gear."

  "Makes a change from those arrows," Shirley said.

  "She's even invited me to speak at their monthly meeting."

  "Not that joke about the archbishop again?"

  I frowned. "No, not that one. My subject is to be 'Great Prison Escapes'."

  "Sounds like she's got a dinkum set-up."